


Walk with me (out of the mouth of this hollow)

by kitsune_kitana



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Food Issues, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Abuse, Power Imbalance, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Sexual Abuse, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 13:05:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5291945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsune_kitana/pseuds/kitsune_kitana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur struggled to keep his breathing slow and calm, but his mind was racing. </p><p>They don't care if you can cook or clean. You don't need that if you're just there to get fucked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walk with me (out of the mouth of this hollow)

Arthur remembered the little room he'd been kept in after he was taken away from his last owner in great detail: a cot against one wall with a rough, grey cotton blanket and a pillow. A sink in the corner with a shower and a toilet nearby. A small table. There was a window above a simple wooden chair, and Arthur could see blue sky and white clouds through the glass. Part of him wanted to perch on the seat and look outside, but he knew most houses had rules against slaves using the furniture, and he didn't want to provoke the heavy footsteps he periodically heard outside his door--guards, he presumed--into coming inside.

He also hadn't missed the small camera in the back right of the ceiling. It was excellent insurance that Arthur would be as well-behaved as possible in order to avoid, in whatever way he could, some of the worst placements for unwanted slaves like himself under the camera's watchful eye. Being labelled troublesome or belligerent if his purchaser reviewed his tapes could only make his life more difficult.

Arthur had already prepared himself for several scenarios. Labor, perhaps, though his build was too small to be useful for field work. Maybe something mindless in a factory, piecing together electronics or packaging food, where most slaves were sent after they were no longer useful.

Or a brothel.

He half suspected that he was already in one. Arthur spent his first day on his knees in the middle of the room, head bowed to the ground, waiting for his first customer to be sent in before he'd noticed the lack of bolts in the walls for easy restraint, or toys to be used on him, or even lubricant for him to open himself up for use. He was pushing thirty anyway, too old to be appealing enough for a commercial establishment.

In total, he'd only had a handful of visitors during his time in that room. Cleaning staff stopped by regularly to launder clothes and linens. The first time a woman had come in, stepping around Arthur's kneeling figure on the floor to take the blanket and pillow case, Arthur struggled not to move against the panic rising in his throat, the pinprick of tears in the corners of his eyes. He'd made a point to fold and replace both items on the cot every day in order to avoid appearing unclean or ungrateful for the luxuries. Now, he'd done something wrong and they were being removed.

Arthur stared hard at his hands where they lay on his thighs, willing his breathing not to change and his shoulders not to shake. It would only work against him if she'd reported back to the guards or his interim owners that he used up more resources than he contributed or felt entitled to unearned comforts. When the woman eventually reappeared with a new blanket and pillow case in hand, Arthur closed his eyes against the blur of tears, both in relief and reaction to the unexpected kindness.

She'd clucked sympathetically at him, patting his shoulder with her hand before laying a folded pile of cloth in front of him. Later, Arthur realized that it was more of the loose cotton pants he was currently wearing, shirts, socks, and underwear. These he refolded carefully after she left, tucking them away neatly underneath the cot.

\--

The other frequent visitor was the doctor, a calm, grey-haired man who always came in a blue knit sweater and a bag that held his medical kit. He was usually accompanied by a tall, severe-looking woman called Miriam who Arthur had guessed was an overseer of the institution that was holding him. Arthur disliked these visits, though the man's hands never touched him unnecessarily during his examinations. When the grey-haired man came, Arthur disrobed when ordered, arranged himself on the cot on his back, closing his eyes and drifting as the doctor prodded at him, asking questions in a gentle voice and looking over old wounds.

_"I'm checking on a previous anterior dislocation of the left shoulder. Arthur, are you having any mobility issues here?"_

_"No, sir."_

_"And your chest? Any pain in your torso when you're breathing?"_

_"No, sir."_

_"Are you getting enough to eat, Arthur? We need to make sure you're able to maintain a healthy weight."_

_"Yes, sir."_

When the man's hands went between his legs, lifting his sex gently, Arthur conjured up images of the old library where he could sometimes hide, surrounded by high oak shelves filled end to end with books, their pages yellowing and musty. Here, he could lay on his back and look upwards, and imagine they extended as far as his eyes could see, each one holding a different world, a different life.

He was small and limp when the doctor touched his hip, asking if he could turn over.

Arthur moved onto his front, arms loose. He clenched his teeth when fingers prodded at the bruising on his lower ribs that hadn't yet disappeared, feeling phantom pain when the touch went over welts on his back and thighs that he remembered being laid down with vivid memory, though the marks themselves had faded.

When he heard the snap of a rubber glove, Arthur understood what came next, rolling onto his side and bringing his knees up to his chest. He tried to go back to the library in his head when he felt the prod of fingertips at his hole, but it disintegrated in his mind. He grasped instead at the memory of the sunflowers that grew along the hedge in his master's back yard, each bloom arching golden and proud and as round and big as his face. He looked for the soft sound of a guitar playing as he lay, curled up, near the fireplace. He could almost smell fresh fruit pies in the summer, right as they came out of the oven, and feel how the stolen bits of crust that had broken off from the tins crumbled in his mouth.

But even these memories weren't enough to overcome the sensation of being stretched open again, of fingers moving inside him, even though they were undoubtedly more gentle than their predecessors. He remembered the words of the first doctors to treat him, remembered _rape_ and _tearing_ , but this wasn't a framework within which he could mentally function while curled up in this room. Arthur reminded himself that he had to accept his place, that rape and violation implied an ability to consent that, in his life, had been replaced by a contract of ownership. The best he could do in any situation was assuage his master's anger, his master's desire, and whatever whims arose in the interim.

Here, in his little room, the doctor in the blue knit sweater assured Miriam that everything was healing up nicely, and Arthur pressed his face into the crook of his elbow, clenching his jaw and breathing deeply. He'd already wasted enough tears over this.

\--

His latest visitor had easily been the most terrifying.

Miriam had come into the room and announced that she had a potential placement for Arthur, that she would be coming in an hour to take him to her office for an introduction.

These things, Arthur knew, were more inspection than introduction, allowing buyers to search for flaws, scars, aging. It was also the moment of truth. Arthur couldn't know where he was going to be placed, which didn't stop him pleading mentally that he wasn't being met by a brothel owner as he scrubbed himself under the spray of the shower. Nevertheless, Arthur was careful to stretch himself open, just enough to make sure that two fingers slid in easily, but not enough that his new owner could complain that Arthur was loose when he checked. He brushed his hair neatly, smoothed out the wrinkles in his clothing as well as he could with his hands and the steam of the shower before stepping into them. He was kneeling in front of the door, the damp ends of his hair curling at his neck, when Miriam came to collect him.

The walk to her office was excruciating. Arthur hyper-focused on every detail of the ground in front of him with each step, reminding himself to walk slowly, to be calm and precise, to convey that he was well-trained and pliant, still useful despite his background, which the person in the next room had undoubtedly seen documented in detail in his provenance.

With his eyes lowered and Miriam's hand on his lower back ushering him inside the room, he only took in worn, brown Oxfords and wrinkled trousers before her hand dropping away cued him to kneel.

Arthur mentally checked over every inch of his posture: palms open on his thighs, knees parted, head bowed low enough to show the vulnerable curve of his neck. He heard Miriam sit in one of the chairs in front of her desk, saw her cross her legs, pale calves leading to turquoise heels, from the corner of his eye.

"Thank you for coming in, Mr. Eames. You know that we appreciate everything you've done for for us."

So the man in front of him did business here often, Arthur thought, heart sinking. The frequent purchasing of slave contracts only made sense for labor dealers, though that usually wouldn't require inspecting the merchandise one by one. That was more suggestive of the whorehouses, who needed to assure that their purchases were disease-free and aesthetically appealing. Unless this man was one of the commissioned agents helping households fill their staffing needs; Arthur would gladly be a gardener, part of the cleaning staff, even a kitchen boy over the possibility of spending the rest of his useful years on his back, being fucked for money.

"It's not a problem at all," Arthur heard the man respond, "The least I can do to help." His voice was accented, British and husky. "Now, I think this is the man I came here to meet. Can you tell me your name?"

Arthur tensed, unsure if the statement was directed at him. He waited for some kind of indication of what to do next, some signal that he had permission to speak. Miriam touched a hand to his shoulder and he prayed that he wasn't misinterpreting her cue.

"My name is Arthur," he began, then cursed himself silently at the presumption that his owner couldn't change even this at will. "And I'm grateful to serve," he finished. His heart was pounding.

Arthur heard the man rise and only had a moment to brace himself as a hand reached towards his head, then gentle fingers tipped his chin upwards. Arthur moved with them, easy and obedient, keeping his eyes averted. Most masters saw eye contact as a sign of disrespect, and it was safer to fix his gaze on the wear lines in the leather of the man's quarter brogues while Mr. Eames made sure Arthur's face was fair and unmarked.

Ever contrary, the man cleared his throat and said, "Let's take a look at you. Eyes on me, now," and Arthur blinked slowly, stomach twisting, before meeting the blue-grey eyes of the man standing in front of him.

He was big, Arthur observed nervously. Perhaps not taller than Arthur himself if Arthur had been allowed to stand, but he was thick with muscles apparent even through his taupe windowpaned suit. His hands looked like they could hurt easily, and when he shifted, Arthur could see the definition in his arms under the jacket he wore. Even a casual slap would land fiercely.

Mr. Eames looked like a man accustomed to getting his way, a man who wouldn't listen to the word 'no'. Arthur swallowed, already dreading how rough the man might be if he insisted on trying Arthur out before purchasing his contract. Best to try and coax Mr. Eames into taking his mouth, he decided, instead of fucking him if at all possible. Arthur could bear those hands twisting in his hair, pushing his mouth further down on a cock, better than around his waist, forcing himself deeper into Arthur's still sore hole.

"Sir," he whispered, cursing himself mentally at the tremor in his voice. One of those large palms went to his cheek and Arthur flinched. He couldn't read the man's face at all, couldn't tell if he was displeased, couldn't even tell from Miriam's expression when his eyes darted to her frantically whether he'd made some terrible misstep.

When he met the man's eyes again, his face had broken into a kind smile, and it was all Arthur could do to hold his position and not sag with relief. "Arthur," he said, "That's a lovely name. You can call me Eames."

Arthur wondered if this was a trick. "Yes, sir," he said, by way of response, wishing that the man would give him permission to lower his eyes. His stomach dropped when Eames' smile wavered.

Thankfully, Miriam took that moment to open the file she held on her lap, drawing the man's gaze away. "We've gone through a good deal of what's in here, but as you can see he's recovered nicely. Arthur came in with some physical injuries, primarily impact injuries, abrasions, some sprains, and tearing, but he passed a full physical with Dr. Thompson this week. We feel confident about transitioning him to a home where he can start interacting with others.”

A home. Arthur’s heart was pounding. Mr. Eames could be buying slaves to fill out his household.

“I'm a little concerned about his weight still. Arthur, how have you been eating?"

"Well, miss. Thank you." And then, considering the man sitting in front of him, he added, "I’m given much more than I need, miss."

It was true. He'd thought through his first meal carefully, unsure how to ration despite not knowing the frequency of his feedings. When the trays of food had continued to come--another tray again that evening, and then the morning after--Arthur had wondered if they wanted to fill him out, unhappy with the press of ribs and breastbone that Arthur could see in his own torso. And it would be easier to work, he'd decided then, not knowing what he'd be used for, without the gnawing ache of an empty stomach or the dizzy weakness of pushing through the next few hours of chores before he'd receive another meal.

But here, in front of Mr. Eames, Arthur felt appalled, almost ashamed, at the idea that he might have required a greater amount of food to sustain than the other slaves the man might've been considering. He wondered if it was a test, if they had marked somewhere in his files that he would take more than he'd earned given the opportunity. A resource-heavy slave was the last thing any master wanted to add to their household.

"That's good, Arthur. You have to remember to feed yourself well. Do you feel ready to go to a new home?"

"I would be grateful to be placed," he began, slowly. "I've kept a house before. I know how to cook and clean, and I've had some training as a body slave." An long pause filled the room, and Arthur stumbled to fill it. "I'm very sorry if this is deficient, miss, Mr. Eames. I'll try to learn my new responsibilities as quickly as possible."

 _They don't care if you can cook or clean_ \--Arthur struggled to keep his breathing slow and calm, but his mind was racing. _You don't need that if you're just there to get fucked. They're going to make you a whore._

Mr. Eames’ face was inscrutable when Arthur dared an upward glance.

"Miriam, do you think I could have the room for a minute? I'd like to speak with Arthur alone, if you don't mind."

Arthur braced himself, understanding what came next. When the door closed with a soft click, he gripped the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head. He felt his nipples harden almost instantly, a combination of fear and the cool air of the room. Arthur shifted his weight, fingers hooked in the waistband of his pants, and pushed them down his hips, fumbling to get them past his knees. He froze when warm fingers closed around his cold hands.

"You don't need to do that." Mr. Eames' voice was firm but not unkind.

Arthur didn't understand. Even if the man didn't intend on using him, surely he wanted to inspect Arthur to make sure he was whole and unmarked aside from the injuries that had already been outlined to him by Ms. Miriam beforehand. He flinched when Mr. Eames eased his pants back up to his waist, clinging stupidly to the cloth of his shirt when it was pushed back into his hands.

"Arthur, I know you must be confused. I don't have a way of proving this now, but I'm not recruiting for a brothel."

He could be lying so that I don't make trouble, Arthur thought. It's not like anyone had a vested interest in telling him the truth, and anything that kept him walking quietly to wherever he was being taken rather than being dragged kicking and screaming could only make this man's life easier. It was simpler just to stare at the brown carpet and wait for some signal from Mr. Eames of what he wanted.

"My home is an hour away from here and Ms. Miriam thinks that you're ready to leave this place and live somewhere a little more welcoming. If you like, you could come with me. Hopefully, I'll be able to make you a little more comfortable."

If he liked. Arthur didn’t know whether to scoff or sob.

If he liked, he wouldn't be locked up, waiting to be resold. He wouldn't have made whatever mistake that got the shit beaten out of him that last day in his old master's household. If he liked, he wouldn't be here, weighing the possibility that Mr. Eames might be a kind owner against the likelihood that Arthur might end up even worse off than he was now.

“Do you have any questions?”

Arthur hesitated, wanting to show that he was quiet and obedient. “My provenance, sir,” he began. “Will you inspect me against my provenance?”

"Is there something in there you think I need to know?"

He knew Mr. Eames had gone over it with Ms. Miriam. The response felt like a warning, as if Mr. Eames believed Arthur was questioning his thoroughness.

"No, sir," Arthur said finally. "I'm sorry, sir."

Mr. Eames just looked at him in silence, so Arthur ducked his head further. "If I could give you my mouth, sir, I would be very grateful to please you," he added, cursing himself for stumbling through this introduction.

"I find you quite pleasing already, Arthur." And now Mr. Eames was smiling, and that simple upturn of his lips and the lack of visible malice lifted an enormous load off of Arthur's chest. "If you find it agreeable, I'll call back Miriam and we'll have you packed up and ready to come home with me today."

This is it, Arthur thought. Please let him be kind.

"As it pleases you, Mr. Eames."


End file.
